


Extracurriculars

by Princip1914



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Baking, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Hair Washing, Hospitals, M/M, Nurse Crowley, Phone Sex, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Tenderness, Toothbrush of domesticity, but nothing graphic or specific, oblique references to COVID and HIV/AIDS, quarantine haircut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914
Summary: Aziraphale looks around at the scattered mess of flour on the countertop, at the racks of choux pastry cooling on the stove. Imagines Crowley, wending his sinuous way through a jungle of beeping tubes and monitors. “My dear,” he says, “I’m afraid I’m not at all. I’m just staying in while you’re….you’re--” Aziraphale swallows. “What I mean to say is that if one of us is the guardian ang--”“Just tell me,” Crowley cuts in, voice soft and teasing, and oh, Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale would do anything for him. “Tell me, what sort of treats did you whip up today?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 220
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	Extracurriculars

**Author's Note:**

> My second lockdown fic in less than a week. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. FYI there is very little explicit content here. The phone sex is pretty much just implied off screen. 
> 
> This one is in honor of National Nurses Week in the USA.

“I’m so bored,” Crowley says over the phone, “I’m so very, very bored.” 

“Oughtn’t you to be out and about, doing things?” Aziraphale asks, as though he hasn’t seen a very characteristic antique Bentley careen past the bookshop at six in the morning every day this week, the weekend too. 

Crowley makes some non-committal noises on the phone, and they chat a while longer about insignificant sorts of things, baked goods, every flavor of cake that’s in Aziraphale’s cookbook and then some. 

“Right,” Crowley says, “I’m setting the alarm clock for July. Goodnight, angel.” 

***

“Do you think the hospital staff would like any cake?” Aziraphale asks, when he rings again the next evening. 

“There’s an email address for food donations,” Crowley says automatically, then the line goes quiet for several moments that are especially damning, even considering that Aziraphale is talking to an actual Agent of Hell (retired). “Er,” Crowley says. “Or so I’ve heard.” 

“You could have told me,” Aziraphale tries not to make it sound like an accusation. He twists and untwists one finger in the phone cord, presses the cool metal receiver to his ear. “We’re on our own side now, after all.” 

“Nah…” Crowley’s voice is distant, even over the static of the phone. “Couldn’t have really.” 

“Is there anything you need?” 

“M’ a demon, I don’t need anything,” Crowley bristles. Aziraphale waits. 

“I ah,” Crowley continues, quieter now. “I just...ring me tomorrow night, will you angel? Keep calling?” 

***

“I liked that story,” Crowley says the next night. “About the boys who tried to come into your shop. I like thinking about you puttering around, giving out cake to local ruffians. Right guardian angel you are.” 

Aziraphale looks around at the scattered mess of flour on the countertop, at the racks of choux pastry cooling on the stove. Imagines Crowley, wending his sinuous way through a jungle of beeping tubes and monitors. “My dear,” he says, “I’m afraid I’m not at all. I’m just staying in while you’re….you’re--” Aziraphale swallows. “What I mean to say is that if one of us is the guardian ang--” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s cuts in, a note of warning in his tone. There is a brief silence on the line. 

“Just tell me,” Crowley says, voice soft and teasing again, and oh, Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale would do anything for him. “Tell me, what sort of treats did you whip up today?”

***

It goes like this. Aziraphale talks to Crowley about his days in the shop, which books he refurbished, what new recipe he tried his hand at. And Crowley...Crowley mostly listens. Aziraphale doesn’t ask questions. Aziraphale doesn’t know if he’s allowed. 

“--Blasted batteries have been giving me trouble all day,” Crowley interrupts one night as Aziraphale is discussing pastry. 

“--apparently you have to fold the butter in, that’s what laminates it as opposed to making a rough puff--what was that my dear?” 

“Do you know how hard it is to miracle a battery while trying to look like you aren’t miracling a battery?” 

There’s a sigh, then the rustle of sheets that tells him Crowley is lying down and getting comfortable on his bed. Aziraphale thinks of him there, thinks of the plush and luxurious cavern in Mayfair, Crowley a dark shadow in a midcentury modern void (give or take one garish throne room), settling all alone into obscenely high thread count sheets. Aziraphale aches to fold him into his arms, to lay him inside the circle of his wings. Instead he says, “tell me about the batteries.” 

“They’ve got these plastic and paper hoods they wear. The nurses and doctors,” Crowley says, “each with a battery pack and a hose and filter on the back, to push clean air through, keep the dirty air out. It’s a terrifically smart idea,” he sighs. “Or it would be, if the batteries worked.” 

Aziraphale swallows. “Good thing,” he says carefully, “that you were in the area then.” 

“Hmm,” Crowley’s voice is muzzy, as if he’s dropping off to sleep. “It’s exhausting, angel.” 

“I know,” Aziraphale says. “Well, actually, I don’t know, I have no idea, really I can only imagine my dear--” 

But a gentle hissing snore tells him Crowley has fallen asleep. The Bentley drives by at six the next morning all the same. 

***

“Your arms must be so strong,” Crowley says one night. 

“What?” Aziraphale is startled out of a monologue about ciabatta. 

“All that baking,” Crowley says, “mixing and kneading.” In Crowley’s mouth, the words sound filthy. Heat prickles down Aziraphale’s spine. He is surprised that Crowley asked for this, but glad. Over the past few months, Aziraphale has learned that when it comes to these sorts of things, the demon is hesitant, easily embarrassed, often wants Aziraphale to make suggestions and take the lead. Aziraphale is happy to do it. Happy to do it for Crowley. 

“Not just my arms,” Aziraphale says, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial, husky whisper. “My fingers have gotten so strong too. They’re much thicker now. My dear, would you like to imagine what they might feel like inside--”

Crowley yelps. “Angel, I was just thinking of you holding me.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale flushes and nearly drops the phone in mortification. “That was terribly forward of me, I’m so sorry--” 

“No,” Crowley says, and even over the phone Aziraphale can hear the click of his throat as he swallows. Imagines the long line of it. “No,” Crowley says, “I...er...You don’t have to stop. You could keep on...um….talking. Talking like that. It might help...help distract me. Might help me sleep.” 

Later, Aziraphale asks, “did you like it?” 

“I liked it,” Crowley says, drowsy, sated. “I like everything with you.” 

Aziraphale lies on his back in the dusty bedroom of the upstairs flat and wonders why he hasn’t yet asked Crowley to come over. 

***

“My hair’s gotten so long,” Crowley says one night. 

“I always liked it long,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

“I know _that_.” Even over the phone, Aziraphale can tell Crowley is rolling his eyes at him. “It’s just that it’s been getting everywhere. It’s too short for a tie, but so long it gets in my eyes. Keeps getting stuck in the face shield.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale says, feeling a bit faint. “I suppose you could...could stop here after work. I could cut it for you.” 

“But there’s the lockdown,” Crowley points out. He doesn’t point out that he could miracle his own hair easier than Aziraphale could cut it. “No _slithering over_ I thought you said.” 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale worries the phone cord with his fingers. “Well, you’re essential aren't you? It’s a public service really. And you drive past here every day on the way to the hospital. I suppose there’s no harm in nipping over for a bit is there?” 

Crowley is silent for a long time on the phone. “Alright, angel.” he says finally. “Alright.”

***

Aziraphale dithers all day. He puts two dozen different kinds of pastry and cake on a plate, then rearranges them five times, then stress eats half of them in despair. Crowley prefers wine to food anyway. He is searching out a bottle in the back room when there’s a sharp rap on the door. 

Aziraphale goes to it, throws it open too quickly. Crowley is standing on the empty street, hand still raised as if he were about to knock. He’s not wearing sunglasses, and his hair is exactly as much of a mess as he described. He’s got a hospital ID badge pinned to his chest with a garish photo and NURSE in large block letters beneath it. There are bruises over the bridge of his crooked, beautiful nose. Fresh abrasions pink and new layered over the purple of older injuries. 

“My darling,” Aziraphale says, and gestures him inside. Crowley is wearing starched blue hospital scrubs instead of his own clothes. Their shapelessness makes him look even thinner than Aziraphale remembers. Crowley shucks them in the entryway of the bookshop, in businesslike, practiced movements, until he is standing only in his black boxer briefs. 

“Come here,” Aziraphale commands. He can’t wait a moment longer. Crowley steps forward and lets Aziraphale fold him in his arms. Aziraphale’s wings emerge in this dimension with a whoosh of displaced air, curl around Crowley’s naked boney shoulders. 

“Let me wash your hair,” Aziraphale murmurs, “I’ll cut it after.” 

They go upstairs to the little used bathroom. Crowley kneels by the side of the clawfoot tub, Aziraphale sits on the edge of it, runs the water until it is warm but not hot. Crowley bends at the neck, lets Aziraphale’s hands work at his scalp. Aziraphale touches Crowley with the kind of reverence he might have felt guilty about a year ago, holds a basin under the flowing tap, moves to pour it over Crowley’s head. 

Crowley holds up a hand to stop him. “Better...better not,” he says, a bit choked. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, only now realizing the danger, the particularly holy rite he very nearly performed on Crowley’s bent, vulnerable head. 

Crowley takes the bowl of water from Aziraphale and pours it himself. Allows Aziraphale to work shampoo and then conditioner into his scalp with shaking fingers. 

“I smell like you now,” Crowley says, settling himself in a chair that he has miracled up in front of the mirror. 

“Is it alright?” Aziraphale asks, standing behind Crowley, a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach. “I could have gotten a different kind of shampoo for you?” 

“Nah,” Crowley pushes his head into Aziraphale’s hand. “I like it.” 

Aziraphale pulls out a barber’s kit he bought sometime in the 16th century. Crowley laughs. “Used to use those for surgery you know.” 

“I wish I’d been there for you,” Aziraphale says, before he can stop himself. Before he can lose his nerve. 

“What?” Crowley turns to look up at him over his shoulder. “Been there when?” 

“All the times Crowley. All the times you’ve helped.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve known since the 14th century. And I suspect you were slithering off to hospitals far earlier than that too. Probably well before there even were hospitals to slither off to.” 

“Temple healing was always a bit of a challenge.” The tips of Crowley’s ears are red. “Consecrated ground and all that.” The demon turns back around to face the mirror and Aziraphale runs a comb through his hair, parting it this way and that, considering. 

“I wish I’d been brave enough to help you, at the very least, in the 1980s,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I could have done this for you.” 

“Didn’t need you to cut my hair then.” 

“Not that. Talked on the phone.” Aziraphale snips with the scissors. “Told you about pastry. Distracted you.” 

“Helped me wank off?” In the mirror, Crowley’s cheeks have turned bright red to match his ears. 

“Well, yes, that too. But I hardly think you would have been as amenable then.” 

Crowley swallows. “You might have been surprised, angel.” 

They’re quiet for a while. Crowley really does have the most lovely hair, Aziraphale thinks. 

“In the park, by the bandstand,” Crowley says suddenly. 

Aziraphale stiffens. “I was cruel, Crowley. I wish you wouldn’t remind me.” 

“No, no, not that.” Crowley says. “No, I mean, you said ‘may you be forgiven.’ I just--” he takes a breath. “I don’t want to be forgiven. Not ever. Not by same god who brings plagues, who keeps on bringing them. You know what my job was? In Heaven, before?” 

“I’ve guessed,” Aziraphale says, hands stilling in Crowley’s hair. 

“Well, there’s no point in rehashing it,” Crowley mutters, “but it’s not like I’m going to stop, just because someone’s decided it’s no longer part of the plan. Can heal just as well from downstairs as from upstairs. And it’s not like it’s good or bad either, is it? A virus is a virus. It’s not a sin to have it. It’s not really a grace to get better. I’m not helping your side, I’m not hurting mine. It’s all just….” 

“Extracurricular?” Aziraphale suggests, hands moving again in Crowley’s hair. 

Crowley huffs out a laugh. “You know, if you said ‘ineffable,’ I was going to discorporate you.”

“I would expect nothing less of you my dear,” Azriaphale makes a few more snips. “You’re all done. What do you think?” 

Crowley gives himself a critical once over in the mirror. “It’ll do.” He moves to stand. 

Aziraphale puts one trembling hand on his shoulder, keeping Crowley in place. “Would you like to...to stay?” 

“It’s against the rules,” Crowley murmurs. 

“So...so is loving you,” Aziraphale swallows. Crowley’s shoulder trembles beneath his palm. “And the rules... the rules haven’t stopped me. Do you want to stay?” 

Crowley stands and turns to face Aziraphale in the small bathroom. He leans in, brushes their lips together brief and chaste. Aziraphale shudders from it all the same. “I thought you might ask. I even brought my toothbrush, just in case.” 

“Will you?” Aziraphale asks, “will you stay?” 

Crowley smiles, a real smile, lopsided and beautiful, even with the bruising on his face. “Of course, angel. Of course I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> It is Nurses’ Week (in the USA at least) and I wanted to put a little something out there in appreciation of everything they do to keep the hospital running, at normal times and especially now. Nurses need support and advocacy in order to get the hazard pay and benefits they deserve (not to mention appropriate protective gear). This is your daily PSA that just calling someone a “healthcare hero” does nothing to compensate them for their labor or provide for their family if they get sick or die of COVID! 
> 
> Everything I know about baking comes from the Great British Bake Off. IRL, I am a disaster with an oven and liable to burn down the house. 
> 
> If you want to scream more about lockdown, come hang out on Tumblr [ here](https://princip1914.tumblr.com)


End file.
